


Jet Boy

by flowercrownfemme



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970's/1980's, Alternate Universe - Punk, Because I'm Bad With Stage Names, But Around 1980, Drag!Luke, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Glam Rock, Hardcore, Los Angeles Punk Scene, Lots Of References To 70's And 80's Music, Luke Is Lux, Luke's In a Gay Band, M/M, Michael Is Mike Stand, Michael's That AssholeTM, Period-Typical Homophobia, Somewhat Vauge Time Setting, With A Leather Jacket And A Mohawk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2018-11-17 04:25:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11267901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowercrownfemme/pseuds/flowercrownfemme
Summary: It's the early 1980's in Los Angeles and Michael is in a hardcore band, Luke is in a gay band, and they hate each other.Featuring Calum and Ashton as the band members/best friends that force them together.





	1. I Love Livin' In The City - Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title Song:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CjaZUmGLUG8

“Just fuck it up,” Michael roared, his voice hoarse and rough from a night of screaming and breathing in lungfuls of smoke. “I want anarchy, do you assholes hear me? Anarchy! Kill someone! Kill yourself! Who gives a fuck?”

An army of sweaty, angry teenagers roared back; throwing fists and middle fingers, empty bottles and lit cigarettes. At the back of the club stood the owner, fuming, ready to pull the plug and shut the whole thing down. He did, in fact, give a fuck if anyone was killed in his club that night because it would be  _ him _ who would have to deal with it in the morning and homicide always made for a huge pile of paperwork.

The kids were like a swarm of bees, noisy and ready for a fight, moving as one being as they slipped over and against each other to the sound of distorted buzzing guitar and heartstopping fast-paced drum beats. Punches were thrown but few made contact, more for flair than fight, but there still stood a handful of kids on the sidelines holding bleeding noses and loosened teeth. From the fringes it looked inhuman, barbaric, like something one might see on the late night news and wonder how any sane person could be a part of it. But from the center of it all, it was nothing but pure chaotic beauty.

Like molten lava the kids melted together, hot and bubbling and sizzling with energy and undirected anger. There were no expectations, no deadlines, no decisions to be made. They didn’t have to think, only act. They let their bodies take over, thrashing wildly, not feeling the collisions that assaulted each of them from every side. They moved fluidly around an endless circle, a violent mockery of the merry-go-rounds they played on as children. Their noise might have drowned out the music if the music had not been so loud.

And there, up on the stage, Michael stood tall at the helm of his ship - directing them all and adding fuel to their flames. Most knew him as Mike Stand, a dangerous leader with violent tendencies. He goaded them on with insults and unintelligible lyrics that were shouted more than they were sung. The kids didn’t care, they didn’t need to understand his words to know what he was saying, what he was feeling, because each of them felt the same. He was one of them, but  _ more _ . The most popular boy in school; if school were a grimy rundown club and popularity was based on how many holes were poked through your skin and how many gashes were torn through your clothes. They would do anything he asked them to, which made his cry for anarchy all the more worrisome.

Four songs into their velocious set and the PA was cut off, sending everyone’s hands to their heads with a second of earsplitting feedback.

“Asshole!”Michael barked, his voice now amplified by sheer will alone. “Fascist asshole!”

There was a resounding thunderous noise that filled the room as the audience turned on the club owner, who seemed unintimidated by the crowd of bleach-soaked teenagers. He met their angry sneers with a cool steely gaze as he twisted the volume knob to drown them out with the crooning sounds of Barry Manilow. Within seconds the club was nearly empty, only piles of trash and echos of “fascist pig” left behind.

“Can you believe this?” Michael asked, slamming down the lid of his cheap tin guitar case and frowning at his best friend and bass-player, Calum. “That was one of our most mellow shows yet! This is such bullshit.”

“Mhm,” Calum nodded, leaning against the brick-walled alley and squinting to examine his bass in the dim light. Someone had tried to grab it during a gig the week before and Calum had been more protective of it than usual ever since. “Hey, Ash is playing drums for some new band at the Starwood tonight. I bet we could still catch their set, you wanna check it out?”

“It’s not another one of his shitty rockabilly bands, is it?” Michael groaned.

“I dunno,” Calum shrugged, “but who cares? It’d be better than sitting on your ass the rest of the night.”

Despite his grumbling Michael conceded, letting Calum drag him down the block after they’d stowed their guitars in the back of his beat-up old Studebaker.

“I hate rockabilly,” Michael frowned as they neared the club. “Ashton’s too good of a drummer to be playing that shit. When’s he gonna come and be  _ our _ drummer? Niall’s shit anyway, I’d fire him if we could get Ashton.”

“When you stop being such an asshole, probably,” Calum joked, earning a harsh punch to the shoulder. “Rockabilly’s not that bad. X are kinda rockabilly and they’re pretty good.”

“I hate X,” Michael told him as they stepped into the Starwood, the cool night air outside contrasted by the muggy heat of the club. “They’re old. They’re like 30, and Exene’s not even that hot.”

“Hot enough,” Calum shrugged. “I’d fuck ‘er.”

“You’d fuck anything,” Michael snorted, glancing at the bar and feeling in his pocket to see if he had enough for a drink.

Calum laughed and craned his neck to see the stage. “I’m gonna go say hi to Ash real quick before they go on, ‘kay?”

“Sure,” Michael nodded, already walking towards the bar. He ordered a beer and sat down, watching the crowd mill about after what must have been an opening set. It didn’t look like a rockabilly show, although there were a handful of people dressed in the usual greaser garb. This crowd was different from the one at his usual shows. There were less leather jackets and Michael’s was the only mohawk. The kids were dressed a bit more casually. The energy was different, too. A little quieter.

“Can I get a cosmo, please?” a low voice asked beside him. Michael turned his head and raised his eyebrows when he saw the boy on the barstool next to his.

“Nice dress,” he said bitingly, baring his teeth in a sneer.

“Thanks,” the boy told him with a cold grin. “It brings out my ass.”

Michael glanced down to where the fabric was stretched taut, barely covering the boy’s hips, and took another swig of his beer. The boy rested his elbows against the wood of the bar and pushed his chest out enough almost to fill the space in the front of his dress. When he crossed his legs Michael noticed that they were smooth under the ripped fishnets and shook his head.

“What are you doing in that shit anyway?” he asked, frowning.

“Oh, I do a lot actually,” the boy winked, taking the cosmo that matched the pink of his dress and bringing it to his red-painted lips. He drank half the glass in one gulp and blew out a breath that ruffled his blonde hair. The messy curls were teased into a point that flopped down between his eyebrows, almost obscuring his eyes. “Whaddaya do it  _ that _ , Rollins?”

The blonde shot Michael’s leather jacket a condescending glance.

“Fuck off,” Michael grumbled as the lights of the club dimmed further.

“Just a second,” the boy said, tipping back his drink and swallowing the last of it before sliding off his stool and stumbling towards the stage. Michael hadn’t noticed the high heeled boots until he stood, the already tall boy towering over the crowd with the platforms on. He slung a guitar over his chest and took his place in front of the microphone. “Hey, I’m Lux and we’re Fag Brigade.”

There was a round of cheers as the first song started up and audience moved closer to the stage, nodding along with the music. Ashton’s drumming was as good as always, if a little too neat for Michael’s tastes. At least Lux’s guitar was sloppy and distorted enough to cover it up - plus it at least wasn’t rockabilly. It almost could have been decent.

Until Lux started to sing, that is, moaning loudly and practically squealing into the mic between lyrics. It was like he couldn’t take a breath without making it sound sinful. Michael might have left the club if Calum hadn’t been his ride home.

They finished the first song in what couldn’t have been more than forty-five seconds and Michael was glad to hear an end to Lux’s wailing. No one was even slam-dancing, they were just pogoing and dancing in place. It was weird.

“This next song’s called ‘It’s Not You, It’s Your Dick’ and it’s dedicated to all you sluts,” Lux pursed his lips, blowing kisses and shaking his hips while the crowd clapped and cheered. Michael rolled his eyes.

The next song was longer and although Michael couldn’t make out the words he knew they were explicit. Calum finally came back to him by the time they got to the last song and Michael made quick work of grabbing him and dragging him out to the street.

“What the fuck was that?” he demanded, scowling.

“What?” Calum laughed easily. “They’re pretty decent.”

“They’re a joke band,” Michael glowered.

“Exactly,” Calum said. “It’s funny. What’s crawled up your ass tonight?”

“I wish Ashton would just go back to playing punk. I’m sick of all this experimental shit.”

“Well I liked ‘em,” Calum grinned, starting back towards his car. “We should go see them again.”

“No way,” Michael shook his head, hopping off the curve into the crosswalk before the light turned. “They were shit. And the singer kid insulted my jacket.”

“Ooh, did he pull your pigtails too?” Calum teased, running the last block to the car.

“Fuck off,” Michael yelled after him. “Fascist!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this first chapter! I've got most of this fic written so I should be able to post it all within the next couple of weeks depending on how fast I finish it. I made an individual moodboard for Michael and Luke's characters that I posted on tumblr. Here's a link to Michael's that links to Luke's:  
> http://flower-crown-clem.tumblr.com/post/162105531132/jet-boy-its-the-early-1980s-in-los-angeles-and  
> I've also got multiple playlists that I made when I started writing this that I might post somewhere if anyone's interested.  
> <3 <3 <3


	2. Queen Bitch - David Bowie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title song of the chapter:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aFcKPKSr4fk

“You made it!” Ashton grinned, already leading Michael and Calum up the stairs towards what Michael assumed to be the location of the party.

    Michael had never been to a party at the Canterbury but he’d heard that it was where a lot of the LA punk bands had first formed and he’d always been curious to see what it looked like inside. It was a run down apartment building that had been built in the 1920’s and it’s age was shown clearly by the cracks in the plaster and the stains in the carpets. 

    Michael had always imagined the graffitied walls and broken thrashed-out furniture that would fill the place, the army of punks that would fill the building like a crowded beehive, mixing up anarchy and rebellion rather than honey.

    After two flights of stairs Ashton opened a door and revealed the rundown technicolor home of a vintage starlet, unevenly faded silk curtains and rusting fixtures some of the only cracks in the luxurious illusion. Groups of kids around their age dressed in all different fashions milled around, each of them looking like another species from the next. Not an army, but an art piece.

    A group of girls were perched on the kitchen counters, dressed up like the egyptians in some old black and white film with stick straight raven-colored hair and long sharp lines painted all the way from their eyes to their temples. There were boys in old blazers that had been torn up and put back together with safety pins and scraps of fabric, boys dressed in sharp suits like James Bond, and some who Michael would have thought were just preppy geeks if it weren’t for their surroundings. Some mod girls with big sad eyes and sack dresses were smoking by the window with a girl in a filthy wedding dress who was holding an electric razor which she must have just shaved someone’s head with, as there were still clumps of hair falling off of it every time she moved.

    Michael had never been to a party like this, one with Frank Sinatra crooning from the record player and cans of spray cheese set out next to boxes of cheap wine. There was nothing extravagant about it but Michael had been expecting a bowl of stale off-brand Doritos beside a few cans of Milwaukee Best and the spread looked almost gourmet in comparison. The party felt classier than any he’d been to, the people older and more mature even though none of them could have been more than a year or two older than him. They were all dressed differently, as if they’d just dropped in from another world. He felt out of place with his grimy leather jacket and patchy unwashed mohawk, a feeling he’d usual relish in but this was an unusual environment for the feeling to occur. When PTA mothers gawked at him and high school jocks leered at him it gave him a sense of pride at being  _ other _ , but now he was in the epicenter of punk and it should have felt like home. It felt like a museum.

    Michael turned his head to see if Calum was feeling as odd as he was but the dark haired boy was already across the room, deep in conversation with a boy who looked like he could be Elvis’ younger brother. Ashton had settled with a group of kids dressed in dayglo prints and rubber neon jewelry. Michael drifted to the kitchen and made himself a plastic cup of Franzia, taking a sip and grimacing at the sugary sweet taste of it. He nodded at the egyptian girls and they smiled at him, friendly enough, but went back to their conversation without a second glance. He took his wine and began to weave between the other guests, exploring the apartment and trying to find someone he might know. He made his way into the living room and stopped dead in his tracks.

    “Fuck  _ me _ ,” he growled.

    “Right here? In front of all these people?” Lux asked, sprawled leisurely across the pink velvet couch. He shrugged, reaching for the button of his flared jeans resignedly. “If you insist.”

    “Keep your fucking clothes on,” Michael glared, crossing his arms. “What are you doing here?”

    “Here?” Lux mused, waving his hand around flippantly. “In my home? Well at some point I’d really like to put up a fresh coat of paint, maybe lay down some new carpeting if I can. For now though I’m really just trying to have a good time I guess. It’s not easy when you’ve got hardcore assholes showing up at your door every other day, but I do what I can.”

    “Fuck off,” Michael grumbled, throwing himself into the first vacant chair as the group Lux had been talking to moved to another part of the apartment. He lifted his boots onto Lux’s chipped coffee table, hoping they’d leave some dirt.

    “Big vocabulary,” Lux tutted. “Fuck me, fuck you, fuck off. I hope you don’t write the songs for- oh, what's the name of your band again?”

    Michael scowled.

    “How’d you even know I’m in one?”

    “Everyone’s in a band,” Lux told him matter-of-factly. “Plus, Ashton told me. What’s it called?"

    “The Shit Stains.”

    “Charming.”

    “Better than ‘Fag Brigade,’” Michael scoffed.

    “We ever get t-shirts I’ll be sure to save you one,  _ Mike Stand _ ,” Lux smirked.

    “Yeah and I could pass every black eye I’d get right onto you.”

    “Aw, you’d really wear it?” Lux simpered and Michael rolled his eyes. “I could have them put ‘Number One Fan’ across the back or something.”

    “And what would yours say?” Michael snorted. “‘Head Fag’?”

    Lux reached over and stole Michael’s cup of wine, tipping it up against his lips.

    “Hey,” Michael snapped and lunged after him, but Lux had already drained it.  “I was drinking that.”

    “You were being mean,” Lux shrugged, tossing the empty plastic cup back into Michael’s lap.

    “ _ You’re _ mean,” Michael muttered petulantly, throwing the cup on the table.

    “You’re the one being an asshole,” Lux frowned.

    “You’re always an asshole.”

    “At least I’m not a homophobic asshole,” Lux quipped.

    “Aren’t you queer?” Michael asked, narrowing his eyes. “You can’t be homophobic  _ and _ queer, idiot.”

    Lux laughed.

    “There’s lots of homophobic queers.”

    Michael was about to respond but Calum had finally appeared through the crowd, coming to sit on the arm of Michael's chair.

    “Hey, you’re Lux right?” he asked, reaching over Michael to shake the blonde’s hand.

    “Luke during the working week,” the blonde grinned. “Calum? Or should I call you Cal Mine?”

    “Cal’s fine,” Calum laughed at his stage name, taking a swig of his own wine. “You guys were great the other night at the Starwood. I’ll have to make Ashton keep me updated for when you play again.”

    “Thanks, man,” Luke said. “Mike here was just telling me about your guys’ band and it sounds great. I’d love to come and see you, when are you playing?”

    “We’ve got a show next weekend with Circle Jerks,” Calum told him excitedly before Michael could cut in. “You’ve gotta come, man, it’s gonna be great.”

    “I can’t wait,” Luke grinned. “I’ll make Ashton be my date.”

    “What am I your date for?” Ashton asked, plopping himself down on the couch beside Luke and letting the younger boy throw his long legs over his lap.

    “Calum and Mikey’s show next weekend,” Luke told him.

    “That’s not my name,” Michael scowled.

    Calum laughed.

    “You’ll come with me, right?” Luke asked, jutting out his bottom lip and ignoring Michael who was shooting daggers at the side of his head.

    “Sure,” Ashton agreed. “I haven’t seen ‘em in a while. I’d like to hear their new songs.”

    “Wow, I’m  _ so _ excited,” Luke gushed, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “So Calum plays bass, what does Mikey play? Tambourine?”

    “If he had enough rhythm,” Calum snickered.

    “Fuck you,” Michael frowned. 

    “You suck dicks with that mouth?” Luke asked, feigning offense and holding a hand to his heart. His nails were painted with a shiny red lacour and Michael almost forgot to respond, watching the way the red paint caught the light.

    “Only your mother’s.”

    Luke’s lips curled up and Michael wasn’t sure if he was laughing with him or at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! The fic title is from the Damned's version of Jet Boy Jet Girl by the way, which you can listen to here:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQKyMZ8gsPI


	3. Bloodstains - Agent Orange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title song:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E-Cr2iFeSM4

        When Michael was onstage it was like an out of body experience. 

        He had always thought that every stage would come with some amount of stage fright but he had never felt more than an excited jitter before he stepped foot on that pedestal. Every thought that might have made him nervous disappeared to the side of stage and he was left with just his guitar and his voice, alone and in command, with only one purpose: to make noise. It didn’t matter how big the crowd was - the more the merrier - they only fed his energy and he theirs. Sweaty faces gazing up at him, like he was a new god or an ancient statue placed before them for their perusal, they would listen to anything he had to say and they would do anything he asked them to. If he requested damage they would destroy, if he requested flames they’d start a fire. If he requested chaos they would riot. They were lone soldiers awaiting his command, begging for some direction, and he was happy to give it.

        It was more difficult to feel in command though, when there was a pair of cool blue eyes watching him from the bar, long legs crossed and shining heeled boots tapping rhythmically against the leg of a barstool. 

        “Hey, we’re The Shit Stains,” Michael growled into the mic, narrowing his eyes pointedly at Luke and nodding back to their drummer, Nails.

        “1-2-3-4 ⎻ 1-2-3-4!!” he shouted in quick succession, bashing his drumsticks above his head.

        A wall of sound blasted through the club, rattling the glasses behind the bar and ringing the ears of those closest to the stage. Michael’s guitar screeched and screamed, the distortion turning the sounds into a buzzing swampy wail, while Calum’s bass rang out with a deep gritty twang. When Michael’s voice was added to the mix every crack in the building was filled to the brim with noise.

        “ _ Don’t get to close to me, I need room to breathe! _ ” he yelled, his voice booming and crackling through the PA. “ _ You don’t know what I’m capable of - WE’RE BEING TAKEN FROM ABOVE!! _ ”

        He leaned over the crowd, bugging his eyes and leering down at them as he sang the chorus.

        “ _ It’s a mutually assured destruction, keep your finger on the button! I’m  _ **_mad_ ** _ about M.A.D.! Just  _ **_mad_ ** _ about M.A.D.! It’s M.A.D. for you and me! _ ”

        “ _ Mad mad mad mad M.A.D., _ ” Calum chanted with him. “ _ Mad mad mad mad M.A.D. _ ”

        They continued on with a hard unrelenting beat, some kids joining in the chant and some joining the swirling pit in the center of the crowd. Luke watched it all with a small amused smile on his cherry red lips, clapping his hands politely when the song withered out into a long wail of feedback from Michael’s amp. The other audience members chose to jeer rather than applaud, shouting what would have been insults if Michael hadn’t taken each as praise.

        The band swung right into a steady beating song that had the crowd pogoing in their boots as Michael bounced around the stage.

        “ _ The kids on the corner begging ‘buy me some booze!’ But you walk right by, ‘cuz yer so cruel! _ ” he sang, rasping over the words.

        “What do you think?” Ashton asked, sliding onto the stool beside Luke’s and straining his voice to be heard over all the noise.

        Luke sent him a sardonic smile and Ashton laughed.

        “‘If you can’t play good, play loud,’” Luke recited, wincing at a particularly loud shriek from the PA.

        “All these kids seem to like it,” Ashton giggled. “And they’re not terrible.”

        “They’re not,” Luke mused, “which makes it worse almost. They could be playing some decent music if they wanted to.”

        “Michael’s aversion to anything musically refined is the tragedy of our generation,” Ashton grinned, shaking his head with a fond exasperation. “I met ‘im around when he and Cal started the band and he’s always been adamant about not sounding too ‘slick.’”

        “I don’t think he’s got anything to worry about there,” Luke laughed.

        “He’s a good guitar player when you can get him to turn down the distortion and actually tune his guitar,” Ashton said, tipping back his beer. “Could be a decent lyricist too if he could figure out something to say.”

        “The world doesn’t need another straight white boy on guitar.” Luke rolled his eyes, lighting up a cigarette. “There’s too many of ‘em. They’re boring.”

        “Can’t argue there,” Ashton shrugged, taking a drag when Luke offered one.

 

        By the end of the set Luke’s ears were ringing and Ashton’s voice sounded high-pitched to his worn out ears. He had also downed two and and half cocktails, which made Ashton’s squeaking seem more like a funny chipmunk than like a sign of early hearing loss.

        “What’d ya think?” Calum asked, bouncing towards them and hopping up to sit on the bar, still energized from the performance.

        “You were  _ marvelous _ ,” Luke grinned, reaching up to pinch his cheek. “Such rhythm! Such depth! Had me falling off my seat.”

        “Aw, thanks,” Calum smiled, blushing.

        “You were great, man,” Ashton said, clapping him on the back and offering him a beer.

        “And what about me?” Michael asked, sliding into the seat beside Luke and reaching around him to take the fresh cocktail that the bartender had just sat in front of the blonde.

        “Eh,” Luke shrugged, snatching the drink out of his hand and smearing lipstick across the rim as he took a sip.

        “You owe me a drink, remember?” Michael frowned.

        “I don’t owe you anything,” Luke simpered, “but if you wanted me to take you out for drinks all you had to do was ask.”

        Calum and Ashton both snickered into their beer cans behind him.

        “I wouldn’t wanna go anywhere with you,” Michael growled.

        “Oh,  _ baby _ ,” Luke wailed, clutching his heart and falling back against the bar. “You  _ wound _ me!”

        “Whatever,” Michael grumbled, shouldering passed the laughing Calum and Ashton roughly. “I’m gonna go grab the rest of our gear so the other guys can set up.”

 

 

        Luke had barely pulled onto the street when he noticed the skateboarder with the low-hanging mohawk and the beat up guitar case gliding down the sidewalk. He reached over to turn down his music and slowed down to match Michael’s pace.

        “D’you need a ride?” he called, leaning over the passenger seat.

        Michael looked up and frowned.

        “Not from you.”

        He pushed off the ground, skating faster.

        Luke pressed down on the accelerator, following him.

        “C’mon, where do you live?” he asked, glancing forward to make sure no other cars were coming.

        Michael was silent.

        “Look, either you can let me give you a ride or I’ll just keep following you and probably break a traffic law or something but it’s the middle of the night and I know you think you’re real tough and all but-”

        He had to nearly slam on the breaks when Michael suddenly hopped off his skateboard, trudging over and tossing it through the rolled-down window.

        “Ow!” Luke shouted, throwing the board that had hit him in the arm into the backseat. “You didn’t have to  _ throw _ it, asshole. I was just trying to be nice.”

        Michael slammed the car door shut behind him and slung his guitar case into the back as well, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring out the window.

        “I live over in Whittier.”

        Luke switched his blinker on and turned onto the 101.

        “Were you really planning on skateboarding - what? Like twenty miles? Alone? After midnight? How would you ever get there?”

        “I can find a bus or something. I’ve done it before.”

        “Doesn’t Calum have a car?”

        “He’s driving Ashton home,” Michael shrugged. “They’re probably off sucking each other's dicks or something. Whatever. I don’t need him to drive me everywhere.”

        “God, do you ever drop that whole fucking act?” Luke snapped, frowning. “You’re not being punk, you know? You’re just being an asshole.”

        Michael blinked bemusedly at him for a moment before matching his glare.

        “Shut up.”

        “Or what?” Luke asked, his jaw tense. “You’ll call me some slur and storm off again? It’s not my fault you’re some pissy trust-fund kid with divorced parents and misguided anger. Anyone can cut their hair funny and beat someone up, it doesn’t make you special.”

        “Shut  _ up _ .”

        “I’m right, aren’t I? Your parents split up - or one of them left - and now you’re all alone with your child support checks and a broken view of the American Dream so you figured you’d spend their money on clothes to rip up and records to blast because that’ll just  _ stick it to the fucking man _ , won’t it? That’s how most of the kids like you end up here, anyway. Either that or they’ve got a nice little sitcom family at home, but they get tired of daddy telling them they’ve gotta win the big game so they can get a nice big scholarship and they get bored beating the shit out of all the kiddies at school and then they see all these videos of the ‘ _ violence _ ’ at punk shows and they think they could do fucking better than that so they hike up their boots and they steal daddy’s credit card to buy a nice new leather jacket and they come in and they start throwing fists and pretty soon everyone who was there at the start is sitting out on the curb with a bloody fucking nose.”

        “I said  _ shut up _ .”

        “Either way you’ve got a nice little suburban home to go back to at the end of the day and your mom’s tutting over your bruises wondering how you coulda fucked up your knuckles so bad and your dad’s telling you ‘Now, son, you’re never gonna get into Stanford lookin’ like that, now will you?’ and you say ‘Well gee, pop, I thought they might appreciate a little-’”

        “Shut the fuck up!” Michael snarled, his fists clenched tightly in his lap. “Do you ever shut up? You don’t know a fucking thing you’re talking about.”

        “Neither do you,” Luke snapped, looking away from the highway to shoot him a withering look. “Just because you heard a Black Flag song once doesn’t mean you’re a part of the fucking-”

        “What makes you the fucking expert?” Michael growled. “How did you become the fucking gatekeeper?”

        Luke took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring, and turned pointedly back to the road, his knuckles gripped tight on the steering wheel.

        The rest of the ride to Michael’s suburb was silent.

        Michael didn’t thank him when he got out of the car and Luke didn’t expect him to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any song they sing in this fic that's not specified as a cover was written by me by the way. Sometimes it comes in handy that I used to play in shitty punk bands and I've got notebooks full of songs about the government and war and all that stuff :p  
> I've been trying to link live versions of each chapter title song because I think it gives a little bit of the atmosphere of the shows and the scene but it can be hard to find good footage where you can really hear the song too. Would anybody prefer that I link studio versions? Does anybody even use my links? Let me know in the comments, and let me know if you've got any thoughts/predictions about Luke and Michael's characters or about the story!  
> You can also find me on tumblr at flower-crown-clem  
> Thanks for reading <3 <3 <3


	4. Let's Pretend - The Germs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fIxHrRD8A6o

    “ _ Your leather is tight but you wear it full, t'gether is right but you gotta be cool. You cut your wrists but you don't feel the pain - you change your mind but you still feel the same, _ ” Darby Crash growled through the speakers of Michael’s record player. “ _ Let's pretend you're vicious, let's pretend you're cool. Let's pretend suspicious - yeah, yeah - let's pretend you're fools. _ ”

    “Hey man,” Calum grinned, peaking his head around Michael’s bedroom door and making the other boy open his eyes. He plopped down beside him on the floor, dropping his black leather jacket beside him and offering up a six-pack of lukewarm beer that he’d probably stolen from his dad.

    “Thanks, man,” Michael smiled, cracking the top of one can and tipping it back against his lips. He leaned his head back to rest against the side of his bed and tapped his foot to the beat that rumbled through his room, lightly rattling the furniture.

    “Y’know Ash met them a few times?” Calum asked, his own beer half-empty.

    “Who? The Germs?” Michael replied, looking impressed.

    “Yeah, he even hung out with Darby a couple times, at parties and shit.”

    “Shit, man,” Michael sighed. “I wish I’d seen them.”

    “Sounded like fucking chaos,” Calum agreed wistfully. “Ash said the shows were like a warzone, everyone stomping around with Darby on stage covered in fucking blood.”

    “He ever get a burn?”

    “Nah, he was never that into it.”

    “Figures,” Michael snorted. Michael had met a few people with Germs Burns and he’d always thought it was like a military officer being awarded wings. You could only get one from a member of the band or from someone who already had one but it was physical proof that you’d been there since the start, long before Michael or Calum had any idea there was a movement brewing just across town from their suburb.

    They sat for a while, sipping their beers and letting the music drown out any other thought or sound. When the needle came to the center of the record Michael got up to flip it.

    “Oh, he gave me a mix tape the other day,” Calum said, sitting up.

    “Who? Darby?” Michael grinned.

    “No,” Calum laughed. “Ash. There’s some good shit on there.”

    “What, is it a bunch of rockabilly?”

    “I still don’t get your animosity towards rockabilly,” Calum shook his head.

    “It’s just a fancy name for country,” Michael cut in, flipping through his crate of vinyl to find the next one. “It’s just so guys who could have been punks can listen to country and pretend they’re not pussies.”

“Well there’s other stuff too,” Calum told him, patting the pockets of his jacket on the floor until he found the little plastic rectangle. “Here,” he said, tossing it in Michael’s lap when the other boy sat back down, “you can borrow it.”

“I don’t wanna listen to any of this shit,” Michael grimaced, reading over the hand-written titles, Henry Rollins chanting ‘ _ rise above _ ’ from the record player. “He’s got three Velvet Underground songs on here.”

“What’s wrong with the Velvet Underground?” Calum asked, frowning.

“They were art fags,” Michael told him as though it were obvious.

“So?”

“So I don’t wanna listen to them.”

Michael tossed the tape back to Calum.

“All you listen to is hardcore,” Calum said absentmindedly.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Don’t you get bored? It’s all the same skank beat and the same four chords. It’s kinda nice to listen to something different sometimes, is all.”

Michael sent him a withering look in response.

“I like hardcore. I like it so I’m gonna fucking listen to it. I thought you liked it too.”

“I do,” Calum replied. “But it’s not the only thing I like. You used to listen to other stuff - we used to save up our money and pool it to buy Zeppelin records in middle school. And the Beatles, and Queen-”

Michael scoffed.

“Yeah, they seemed cool then,” Michael said, “but they’re all long-haired fucking hippies. And Queen’s even worse.”

“What, cause Mercury’s a ‘fag’?” Calum frowned. “Wait, is that why you’ve been refusing to hang out with Luke? Because he’s queer?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Michael rolled his eyes. “I don’t care if he’s queer - I don’t care about him at all. He’s just some pretentious kid in a dress who thinks he’s better than everyone else because he likes dicks.”

“He’s a nice guy, Michael,” Calum tried.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about but the Luke I’ve met is not fucking ‘nice,’” Michael spat. “He’s an asshole.”

“Well you’re no better,” Calum frowned, grabbing his jacket and slipping his arms through the sleeves as he stood.

“What are you doing?” Michael asked, sitting up with wide eyes.

“I’m going home,” Calum told him cooley.

“Wha- why?” Michael asked, shrinking under Calum’s glare.

“Luke and Ashton are my friends.”

    Calum sighed, his gaze softening.

    “Look, they’re both coming over to mine tomorrow night. If you wanna stop being such an asshole and actually give them both a chance, you can come. If you’re gonna keep being pissy, don’t bother. Alright?”

“Okay,” Michael said, bringing one knee up to his chest.

“I mean it,” Calum told him, looking more serious than Michael was used to. “Don’t come if you’re just gonna fight with Luke and condescend to Ashton.”

“I won’t,” Michael swore.

“You’re my best friend, man,” Calum said, leaning against the doorframe, “even if you’re kind of an asshole sometimes. But they’re my friends too and I don’t want you being an asshole to them, okay?”

“Yeah,” Michael nodded, watching from the floor as Calum walked out of his room. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Maybe,” Calum called, just loud enough for Michael to hear him down the hall.

Michael stayed there sat on the floor until the last sounds of  _ Gimmie Gimmie Gimmie _ faded out and he was left in silence, and then he stayed there some more. Without music there wasn’t a way to mark the time.

It had been nearly a month since Luke had given him a ride home and almost as long since he’d seen him at all. The last glimpse he’d gotten had been a quick second of eye contact in the crowd of an Adolescents show before they both turned away and moved to their respective positions on the floor, Michael in the pit and Luke sitting disinterestedly at the bar, each pretending the other didn’t exist. Michael was used to ignoring people, he was good at it, but he wasn’t so used to people ignoring him. He should have been, but he wasn’t sure it was something anyone could get used to.

He couldn’t decide if Luke ignoring him was better or worse than whatever Luke had been doing before that. Either way, he didn’t want Calum ignoring him as well and if making nice with Luke would keep Calum being his friend than it would be worth it.

He hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry this update took an entire month but I promise I haven't abandoned this work (at least not yet). I could always claim it was an artistic choice though, since about a month has supposed to have passed in the story but I just got busy tbh. Also sorry nothing super important happened in this chapter but I've got a few written that get a little more exciting, I just wanted to give them both time to because slightly less asshole-y.  
> To give a little bit of background, the Germs (who's album, G.I., Michael is listening to at the start of the chapter) were one of the first hardcore bands and they had the first punk single in LA history. They would brand people at their shows with cigarette burns on their wrists to mark them as their followers, and the burns were called 'Germs Burns.' Also Darby Crash, the lead singer, had affairs with a lot of men but kept his sexuality hidden from most people and would use beards to keep a straight image among the punk scene. He killed himself in 1980, leaving a note to his then bass-player that read "My life, my leather, my love goes to Bosco."  
> Hmu if you ever want to know anything about Darby Crash or the Germs cause I was obsessed with them in High School and know way too much about them.


	5. Eve of Destruction - The Dickies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ydqAbLLAlLc

    Michael felt like he should have been waving a white flag as he stepped onto Calum’s front porch, leaning his skateboard against the wall and sucking in a breath before ringing the doorbell. He hadn’t announced his presence like that at Calum’s house since middle school, at least. The two boys had always treated each other’s houses as their own, marching in and wreaking havoc, but it felt different this time. Michael felt like he needed permission to enter this time, to give Calum the option to say no.

    When Calum opened the door Michael’s hands were buried deep in his jacket pockets and his face was tilted down demurely, the porch light casting dark shadows over his features.

    “Hey,” Calum said hesitantly.

    “Hey.”

“We were just about to leave - me and Ash and Luke - you wanna come?”

    “Yeah,” Michael nodded. “That sounds okay.”

    “Cool,” Calum said, his lips turning up in a small smile. “Yeah, that’ll be cool.”

    Ashton appeared at his shoulder, his eyes brightening when he saw Michael on the porch.

    “You made it!” he said happily. “Calum said you might come.”

    “Yeah,” Michael told him, licking his lips and nodding again. “Wasn’t sure if I could make it but, uh, I did. So.”

    “I’m real glad, man,” Ashton grinned, stepping around Calum and sauntering towards the two cars in the driveway. “We takin’ yours?”

    “Yeah,” Calum said, following him. “If you want.”

    “Well, if it wasn’t our very own Henry Rollins - in the flesh!”

    Michael turned around, a glare already set to face Luke with, but the other boy laughed cordially, patting Michael on the back only slightly harder than necessary before joining Calum and Ashton in the driveway. “Are you coming or what?”

    “Where are we going?” Michael asked once he’d slid into the backseat beside Luke.

    “Golf course,” Calum grinned, meeting his eyes in the rear view window as he pulled away from the house. “Figure we’ll stop at 7-Eleven on the way.”

    Ashton reached over and turned up the dial on the radio, just in time to catch the end of a Ramones song.

    “ _ You’re listening to Rodney on the Roq here on 106.7 K-R-O-Q _ ,” the announcer said. “ _ Up next we’ve got Squeeze, with ‘Cool for Cats _ .’”

    The bouncing new wave beat crackled through the speakers and Ashton drummed along with his hands on the dash board. Calum tapped his fingers against the steering wheel and when Michael looked down he saw Luke’s foot moving rhythmically against the floor of the car, his fingers dancing against his knee.

    “ _ The Indians send signals from the rocks above the pass, the cowboys take positions in the bushes and the grass _ .”

    All three of them were singing along under their breath, their heads nodding along to the beat.

    “ _ The squaw is with the corporal - she is tied against the tree. She doesn't mind the language - it's the beating she don't need _ .”

    Luke glanced over and knocked his foot against Michael’s. He leaned in, widening his eyes and raising his voice. Michael rolled his eyes, his lips twitching upwards despite his efforts not to find Luke at least slightly endearing.

    “ _ She lets loose all the horses when the corporal is asleep, and he wakes to find the fire's dead and arrows in his hat... _ ”

    When Michael looked up and locked eyes with Calum in the mirror he could tell that the other boy was smiling by the crinkles around his eyes. Michael gave in, tilting his head back and letting his voice ring out just as loud as Luke’s.

    “ _ And Davy Crockett rides around and says it's cool for cats, it’s cool for cats! _ ”

    With the windows rolled down the cool night air came whipping in around them, pulling their hair and chilling their grins. The faster Calum drove the further Ashton turned the volume knob until it was at its max and the four of them were shouting the words. Michael didn’t mind that he was sitting next to Luke or that anyone could easily hear him singing along to new wave and reciting each line perfectly.

  
  


    Michael was leaning against the side of the car waiting for the gas tank to fill when Luke came up, each hand wrapped around a towering plastic cup that was filled to the brim with soda.

    “Here,” Luke offered one to Michael and copied his position against the car. “Gotchyou a Big Gulp.”

    “Thanks,” Michael nodded, just holding it in his hands and twisting the straw. Calum was still inside the convenience store with Ashton, paying for the gas and buying supplies.

    “Look, Ashton said I should say sorry,” Luke told him, both of their gazes fixed on the bottom of the gas pump. “So. Sorry. I take things personally a lot and I got mad. I shouldn’t have just assumed things about you without asking. That wasn’t fair of me and just because you were being an asshole doesn’t give me the right to be one.”

    “ _ Hey _ ,” Michael frowned, glancing over to see Luke flash him a quick grin. “I’m, uh, I’m sorry too. I should have, like, given you a chance before, ya know, uh. Hating you. And whatever.”

    Luke snorted, pushing off the side of the car and grabbing the door handle.

    “Don’t give yourself a hernia there,” he smiled. “We’re all assholes sometimes.”

    “Some of us more than others,” Michael said pointedly, trying a small smile of his own.

    Luke laughed and there was a tiny fleck of lipstick on his left front tooth. It was a softer, rosier tone than the violent red he usually wore and Michael hadn’t realized that he was even wearing lipstick until then. He wondered if he’d ever seen Luke without lipstick, and what color his lips were without it.

    When Calum and Ashton came back to the car they congratulated the pair on not killing each other the second they were left alone and in no time at all they were each lugging a heavy rectangular chunk of ice, ducking between the bars of the big white picket fence that surrounded the nearest golf course. In the moonlight the grass looked black and endless, the perfectly trimmed trees made into crude silhouettes and the lake into a black lagoon. The four boys trudged up the slope of the highest hill, their feet slipping over the freshly watered lawn and their fingers growing numb.

    Ashton was the first to slide down, his legs held straight as a ruler before him and his head nearly brushing the ground behind him as he flew towards the bottom. Calum went next, sliding off of his block of ice near the end and rolling towards Ashton’s legs, the pair of them stumbling around and letting out poorly contained laughter.

    “Your turn,” Luke said, nudging Michael forward with his shoulder.

    “Ladies first,” Michael countered, tipping forward at the waist and sweeping his arms forward grandly. Luke looked from his smirk to where Calum and Ashton were walking back up the hill with narrowed, calculating eyes and shrugged. He took a quick step forward and slid gracefully onto the ice head-first, gliding down the grass fast as a bullet on his belly.

    “Nice form,” Calum called, as loud as he could make his voice without risking a security guard taking notice from across the course.

    Even in the dark Michael could see the grin on Luke’s face where he was stood at the bottom of the hill. Not one to be outdone, Michael stepped towards the slope, lifting one foot and resting it towards the front of the ice block.

    “Michael,” Calum said from just too far away to stop him, his voice half-way between a warning and a defeat. “Don’t be an idiot.”

    Michael shrugged as if to say that there was nothing else he could do and pushed off with his other foot. The first twenty feet down the hill felt comfortable and familiar, just like riding his skateboard down a steep hill, but the ice didn’t have wheels and when it started to rotate there was no way to lean into it or to steer himself and his feet flew out from under him just where the decline started to level. He was sent elbow-first towards Luke, who had just started back up the hill, the two of them landing hard on the ground with Luke’s endless legs bent at odd angles and their arms folded uncomfortably between and around each other.

    “Fuck,” Michael muttered, rolling onto off of Luke and onto his back. Luke groaned, but it turned into a breathless laugh.

    “Nice- heh- nice job,” he wheezed, rolling his head to the side to watch Michael’s brows furrow with a grin. “Should put you in the- hah- the fucking olympics. You’d bring home the gold every time.”

“Very funny,” Michael told him, rolling his eyes and standing up just in time to hear the sirens in the distance.

“Shit!” Calum laughed, chucking his ice down the hill where Michael and Luke had to jump out of the way to avoid getting knocked over again by it. Ashton simply dropped his to the ground and took off towards the car, his loud giggle bouncing off the surrounding trees.

“C’mon,” Luke said, tossing his own ice to the side. “Let’s get out of here.”

The four of them ran through the course, their shoes slipping over the damp grass and their breath coming out in clouds of mist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case my description of ice blocking wasn't clear enough or you don't know what it is, here's a link to the wikipedia page on it:  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ice_blocking  
> Thanks for reading and for the comments left on the last few chapters!  
> <3 <3 <3


	6. Teenage Kicks - The Undertones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PinCg7IGqHg

Michael was sitting on his front step, replacing the wheels on his skateboard with new ones, ready to throw out the worn-down blackened plastic of the old ones, when Luke’s car pulled up to idle in the street in front of his house. Michael had watched Luke turn the corner onto the street but kept his head down, methodically undoing each screw with a rusty screwdriver and making a pile of dusty old wheels near his right knee. He could hear Roxy Music playing on Luke’s stereo and he could smell the cigarette that Luke was smoking. He finished taking off the last old wheel and started on the new ones.

He heard the door of Luke’s car open and close but the music didn’t stop and the engine didn’t turn off. He could see Luke approaching but he didn’t look up. Luke was wearing his shiny red high heeled boots again and he didn’t look human. He bent down to sit on the step beside Michael, handing him the next wheel to screw on when he finished the first.

“Are those the only shoes you own?” Michael asked when he’d finished all four wheels, setting the skateboard down on the concrete and rolling it back and forth with his hands to test that they didn’t need adjusting.

“Ashton made me wear tennis shoes ice blocking,” Luke offered, leaning back on his hands and watching. “These’re my favorites though, and they cost more so I think it makes sense to wear them more often. Had to save up for a while. More bang for the buck and all that.”

He tapped his toes together, admiring the way they gleamed in the slowly lowering sun.

“Not very practical,” Michael pointed out.

“Good thing I’ve got nothing to be practical for.” Luke stood up, only wobbling on the towering heels for a moment as he rose, and turned to face Michael with a breezy smile. “You wanna go do something?”

“Why?” Michael asked, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Because Ashton and Calum drove up to Oxnard for some show and I’m bored. Entertain me.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Luke told him, turning back to the car. “C’mon!”

“Alright,” Michael shrugged, leaning his board against the door and following. “I’m picking the music though.”

“Fine,” Luke conceded, flipping down the sun visor once he’d buckled in and running his thumb over the edge of his bottom lip, smoothing out his lipstick in the mirror. “I haven’t got any of that  _ Oi Oi _ shit though.”

While he drove Michael sorted through the tapes that scattered the floor, flicking past Elvis and The Who and The Boomtown Rats to find a Sex Pistols bootleg with Johnny Rotten sneering across the front of it. He popped it into the cassette deck and looked over the tracklist while he waited for it to start up.

“He’s cute, huh?” Luke asked, glancing over at the cover.

Michael flipped him off.

“Oh, ‘m so sorry,” Luke laughed. “I should have known you’d be a Sid girl.”

“You  _ should _ be sorry,” Michael told him, the smallest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Can’t believe you thought I’d ever choose Johnny over Sid.”

Luke grinned, delighted.

“I think I’ve got  _ Sid Sings _ somewhere in here if you’d rather listen to that.”

“Nah,” Michael said, leaning back in his seat and crossing one foot over his knee, “it’s fine. That album’s shit anyway.”

“Yeah,” Luke smiled, his nose crinkling. “It really is.”

 

Luke parked the car in a dirt lot, pulling between a minivan and a station wagon. He didn’t say anything as he pocketed the keys and got out of the car so Michael followed him, straightening his jacket and brushing his wilting mohawk off of his forehead. Even though Luke was in heels - or maybe because he was in heels and they made him that much taller - Michael had to walk fast to keep up with him as they crossed the lot towards the big concrete building with the flashing lights. When Luke pulled the door open and beckoned Michael in with a slight tilt of his head there was disco music pumping loudly from within. Michael squinted slightly at Luke as he passed but continued in nonetheless, taking in the neon-flecked carpets and the large oval rink in the center of the room.

“Think you can skate without your board?” Luke asked, his voice close behind Michael.

“I think I can manage,” he said, shifting on his feet and letting a cockiness take over his stance. “How about you?”

Luke snorted, putting a hand at the middle of his back and pushing hard enough that Michael stumbled forward a few feet. He looked around with a glare but Luke was already at the counter, placing a few crumpled bills on the linoleum and pointing behind the counter to a pair of skates.

“What size are you?” he called back, looking over his shoulder.

“Ten,” Michael nodded to the girl behind the counter, reaching into his inside jacket pocket and fumbling around for a few bills of his own.

“Don’t worry about it,” Luke waved him off, smiling at the girl and thanking her as he took both pairs of skates.

Michael frowned but took the offered pair when they sat down on the nearby bench. As he unlaced his scuffed Doc Martins and Luke unzipped his go-go boots Michael wondered what they looked like as a pair - his unwashed hair and torn up clothes beside Luke and his usual shining perfection. He wondered if they looked like a pair at all, and decided that they probably did. Someone who had never heard of the Ramones or listened to Agent Orange would probably lump them together as weirdos and move on. Maybe they  _ were _ weirdos, just different types.

Michael stumbled a bit when he stood up, inching his feet forwards and back to try and get used to the feeling of the skates. When Luke stood up he was still for moment before one foot slid out from under him and he landed right back down on the bench.

“You okay?” Michael asked, his brow furrowed and his eyes searching for signs of distress.

“‘M fine,” Luke waved him off, standing again on wobbly legs. Michael reached out and wrapped one hand around his elbow, steadying him and pulling him towards the rink.

“I’d think you’d have better balance, walking around in those shoes all the time,” he teased, not letting Luke out of his grasp. As they transitioned from the carpeted floor to the much smoother and slippier linoleum rink he added a hand on the small of Luke’s back to keep him upright.

They started to skate, a little slower and clumsier than most of the children and teens around them, joined at the elbow and nearly knocking each other down with every rolling step. The further they went around the rink the more of a rhythm they found, twisting their shoulders and swiveling their hips, pointing their toes and leaning towards the ground.

“This is how every pit should be,” Luke said, looking around at the other kids, all moving together in a wide circle. Most of the younger ones had cleared out by then, leaving mostly teenaged couples skating together,

“Everyone on rollerskates?” Michael laughed.

“No,” Luke smiled. “Just  _ movement _ . Like, I’ve been to shows where no one even bothered to clear a pit - they just started pushing. It’s called slam dancing for a reason, you know? It’s a dance, and it’s fun when you do it right.”

“You never dance at shows.”

“Not that you’ve seen,” Luke smirked. “I dance at the right shows.”

“Then let’s go to one.”

“Alright,” Luke nodded. “Sure. Let’s go.”

They finished their lap, slightly sweaty and with sore legs, having somehow moved from holding elbows to holding hands in their many runs around the rink. Neither mentioned it, but they both dropped their hands as soon as they got back to the bench with their shoes tucked under it. The top half of Luke’s boot had folded over to rest against Michael’s.

It was dark when they got outside and if it hadn’t been for the LA light pollution the stars would have been in full force.

 

Luke seemed to have a sixth sense for finding shows, for in no time at all they were passing a bouncer and stepping into a dark humid room where they had to shout to be heard. Michael looked around, trying to gauge what kind of a show this was. The music was loud, as always, and fast-paced, but it was brighter than usual and the singing was higher pitched. He had barely started to take in the crowd when Luke was yelling beside him, waving a hand at a group of skinheads by the bar.

“Hey, Bitch!” Luke laughed. “Ya suck any good dicks lately?”

Michael moved without thinking, shoving the blonde against the nearest wall and caging him in as well as he could, his eyes frantic.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he hissed. “Do you know who those guys are? Jesus, you’re gonna get us fucking  _ killed! _ You can’t just say that shit, what the fuck is your-?”

He couldn’t finish before there was a burly, bruised hand grabbing his shoulder and pulling him off roughly. Michael clenched his fists, bracing for impact and hoping that he wouldn’t have to fight someone off Luke in the middle of a fight for his own life.

“This guy fuckin’ with ya, Luke?” the boy holding Michael asked, shaking the fist that had moved to grip his collar.

“Eh,” Luke shrugged, amusement clear on his face. “I think I can take ‘im. Whaduya think, Frankie?”

“I’m sure you could,” the boy leered, a mean glint in his eyes as he watched Michael squirm, “but I’d always be happy to take care of it for you.”

“I appreciate it,” Luke grinned, “but he’s not as tough as he looks. Won’t be any problem for me - if I change my mind, though, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Frankie released his grip, patting Michael roughly on the back and giving Luke a quick nod. “All yours.”

“Thanks, man,” Luke laughed, grabbing Michael’s arm and pulling him to a quieter alcove.

“What the fuck was that?” Michael demanded, his heart still racing.

“Old friend,” Luke shrugged.

“Old-?” Michael wheezed. “You’ve got friends in fucking skinhead gangs? Of fucking course you do. How does that even-? Don’t they-?”

“Oh, most of them would like to kill me,” Luke explained flippantly. “But Frank likes me, so as long as he’s around no one else is really gonna fuck with me. I keep telling him he needs to get out of that shit - I know it’s a cool look and all but it's fucked. Guess it’s good for  _ me _ though, ya know, it‘s kept me from getting beat up a few times. He’s a sweetheart, though. I was friends with his little sister when we were kids. You wanna go watch the show now?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Michael nodded, clutching at his chest. “Just give me a second until I’m not fucking hyperventilating and then we can go enjoy a beautiful night of music.”

“Perfect,” Luke smiled, watching contentedly as Michael brought his heart rate back to normal. He waited patiently until a new song started, one which he apparently knew, as he grabbed Michael’s hand and sent them both flying into the crowd, weaving between bodies and sailing towards the pit. Michael didn’t notice the puppets jumping around on stage or the skinheads beating someone up in the shadows. Instead he watched Luke slide effortlessly around the circle, bent as low as he had been in rollerskates, twisting around and kicking his feet to the beat. There was a grace to his movement that Michael had never seen before, at least not in that environment. He was like a ballerina on an acid trip, spinning and leaping with a grin splitting his face as the crowd around him tossed him back and forth, hands always coming out just in time to catch him before he hit the ground.

He was like magic, prettier with sweat dripping down his face and his lipstick smeared across his cheek than any girl Michael had ever seen. But Michael had never really thought any girl was pretty, and maybe that’s why he felt winded when Luke looked up at him and his smile was so wide it looked like it must hurt. Michael felt too hot, the weight of the air too heavy and the music too loud for him to make sense of any one thought. He could see Luke’s smile falter and it didn’t take long for him to follow when Michael pushed his way back through the crowd and burst out into the darkness outside. He didn’t answer when Luke asked if he was alright, just walked towards the car and let Luke drive him back home. He thanked him before he closed the car door but he wasn’t sure if the other boy heard him because the music was still playing and his voice was quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading and thank you to anyone who's left comments/kudos!  
> I didn't specify in the chapter but the show they go to towards the end is a Dickies show because I feel like Luke's character would be into them and I think they sort of embody the fun weird spirit of punk that he's trying to show to Michael.  
> After all the shit that's been going on lately I thought about rewriting the skinhead interaction but I decided to leave it as is because I think groups like skinheads are what ruined a big part of the hardcore/punk scene (at least the mainstream portion of it) because they brought in the violence and the hate that wasn't there at the start. I didn't wanna try and like humanize a neo-nazi or anything with the Frank character but there were a lot of kids who got into it as an aesthetic thing or because there friends were without realizing the weight of what they were doing. I dunno, I might bring him back later or something but I'm not sure. What do you think?  
> The next chapter kind of gets heavier but it's important and I'll try and get it posted as soon as I can!  
> Thanks! <3 <3 <3


	7. Suburban Home - The Descendants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Possible trigger warning for this chapter: there's mentions of abuse and homophobia in this chapter and there's nothing real graphic but just in case! <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JB9l80-78AI

          When Luke woke up on his sitting room couch and read the kitchen clock as 11:58pm he wasn’t sure at first why he wasn’t still asleep, not bothering to wonder why wasn’t in his bed because he’s always been prone to falling asleep reading. Then he heard an impatient tapping at his front door and began wondering if old Mrs. Lee from down the hall needed to borrow a cup of flour again and why she’s always baking in the middle of the night. He considered going back to sleep and letting her find ingredients somewhere else just this once, but then there’s one loud frustrated smack against the door and what sounds like somebody sliding down against it from the other side. Luke turned on the lamp beside the couch and crept closer to the door, looking out the peephole at an empty hallway. He unlocked the door silently, the old hardware for once deciding to slide together easily, and pulled the door open just a fraction of the way. Through the crack he could see torn jeans and a pair of bulky black boots stretched across the hallway and when he opened it more he found a head lulled back against the door, big green eyes watching him sleepily.

          “Took you long enough,” Michael told him, his usual heat burned down to a low smoulder. There was a pale purple bruise blooming across his left cheek. “Were you asleep? I knew you were really just an old lady. You fall asleep knitting?”

          “Crocheting actually,” Luke nodded. “Had a big bingo game tonight and it wore me out.”

          He let the door fall open the rest of the way and stepped back, letting Michael through once he had climbed to his feet. They were both silent as Luke relatched the locks on the door. They seemed never to talk very much when they were together and Luke wondered if maybe every conversation they had came with a word limit that couldn’t be exceeded once it was reached. Or maybe for them it was just statistics that after a certain amount of words something mean would come out and ruin it all so they were better off speaking as little to each other as they could. Or maybe they just didn’t always need words to talk to each other.

          “You want something to drink?” he asked, hesitant to break the silence.

          “Water’s fine,” Michael replied, sat on the couch and holding the book that Luke had dropped on the ground when he fell asleep. He sat it on the side table when Luke handed him the glass, downing half of the water with one long sip.

          “So,” Luke began, sitting cross-legged on the opposite end of the couch. “What’s up?”

          Michael shrugged.

          “Not much. I mean, it’s almost midnight and I’m sitting on your couch, so...”

          “Yeah,” Luke frowned. “I know. I mean, like, why?”

          They hadn’t seen each other in almost a week, not since Luke dropped Michael back off at his house. Michael had been acting weird the whole ride home and nobody Luke asked seemed to have seen him all week, not even Calum who told him that Michael was “just like that sometimes.”

          “I was in the neighborhood,” Michael shrugged. When Luke gave him a look like he needed more than that Michael groaned and continued, “My dad’s being an asshole, okay, and I didn’t wanna, like, go home or whatever. I mean I can’t, really, anyway.”

          “How come?” Luke asked, sitting up straighter.

          “Just cause.” Michael could feel his palms getting sweaty again. He glanced at the door, wondering if maybe Luke would let him leave without asking any more questions and without telling Calum that he had showed up on his doorstep in the middle of the night like some lunatic. Luke was giving him this look like he was worried and Michael could tell that he was trying to figure him out or something and it felt like too much. “Look, I can just-”

          “Michael,” Luke said, grabbing onto his sleeve. “You can’t just show up at my house in the middle of the night out of nowhere after not talking to me for a week with your face all busted up and not give me any kind of explanation. I thought we were trying to be friends, right? That’s not how friends work. Can you just tell me what the fuck is going on?”

          Michael was quiet for a long time, but he didn’t leave. 

          “It was stupid,” he mumbled, staring hard at his hands. Luke had to lean in further to hear him. “I’d been talking to Calum about middle school and the shit we used to listen to back then and I thought I’d get some of it out, you know, like as a  _ joke _ . I had it all in the back of my closet but I found it and took it out and I started playing the records, cause I hadn’t heard ‘em in a while and I’d forgotten what most of ‘em sounded like. But I was playing them loud and I didn’t use headphones or anything so when my dad got home he heard it and he got all pissed off. It was, like,  _ you know _ . Like Bowie, and Queen and shit. I used to like them, before, and I had this huge Queen poster on the back of my door when I was like twelve, like I was really into it, and my dad never came in my room so he never saw it. But then, I think I asked him for help on a math problem or some shit, but he was already pissed that his idiot son couldn’t even do basic algebra on his own so when he turned around and saw the poster he just went off, started shouting all this awful shit and I didn’t know what to do so I just sat there, you know? But he ran over and tore it down and I didn’t even understand why he was so mad, like I didn’t even know what ‘queen’ meant, or I hadn't made the connection, but he started yelling and saying these horrible things about how he wasn’t gonna raise some idiot faggot in his house. He told me to throw out all my records but he threw out the poster for me. I didn’t throw them out though, I just hid them in my closet and told Calum I didn’t like them anymore. Anyway, when my dad heard me playing them again he just...”

          Michael paused, trying to find the right words while rubbing a fist harshly against one eye.

          “He broke all my records - threw ‘em against the fucking wall. He said I can’t come home.”

          “Fuck,” Luke breathed. While Michael talked he had scooted closer on the couch, the hand that had been holding Michael’s sleeve having moved to rest heavy just below the nape of Michael’s neck. “That’s...  _ Fuck _ .”

          “It wasn’t even-” Michael continued, frustrated by the way that his voice kept coming out sounding like he was crying. “It was a  _ joke _ . It wasn’t even serious. He was just being a dick.”

          “It’s okay, you know,” Luke told him, trying to be gentle. “Like, if you do... Like that kind of stuff.”

          “I don’t,” Michael flinched and turned to look at Luke, his eyes wide and glassy. “I don’t- like that stuff anymore. Not since I was a kid.”

          “I know,” Luke said, letting his thumb brush soothingly over the collar of Michael’s t-shirt. “I’m just saying, like, if you  _ did _ . Cause I do, so like, you know. Obviously I wouldn’t care.”

          “Do you think I could sleep here tonight? Like just for now.”

          “Of course,” Luke told him. “I know- I mean, I know what it’s like. Like, my parents kicked me out too, when I was twelve. They saw me kissing this neighbor kid in the backyard after school and they threw me out. Probably would have been stuck out on the streets if Ash hadn’t’ve found me and introduced me to some friends of his who lived in this building. They all kind of took me in like their kid brother or something and when they moved out they gave me the apartment. They were, like, the first wave of punks and they were all so cool and they seemed to all just know everything, you know? They taught me everything real that I know.”

          Michael’s eyes were drooping and Luke could feel himself getting closer to sleep so he went to gather up all the extra blankets and pillows he could find.

          “Was Calum out tonight?” he asked absently, spreading the last blanket over the makeshift bed.

          “Huh?” Michael looked up from where he had been straightening a pillow at one end of the couch, confused.

          He could have gone to Calum’s. Calum’s house was less than a mile away from his and Calum’s parents loved Michael. He could have come up with some other reason that his dad kicked him out, and he wouldn’t have had to take two buses in the middle of the night to get to Calum’s. But he hadn’t even thought about going there until Luke brought it up.

          “Yeah. He wasn’t home.”

 

          When Michael was bundled up on the couch, blankets held against his chin and his body curled against the back cushions while Luke stood at the door to his bedroom, one finger resting against the light switch.

          “Goodnight,” he said softly, flicking the switch and filling the room with darkness.

          “Hey Luke,” Michael almost whispered across the room. “I don’t- I don’t really like girls. Like not the way that Calum and Niall and everyone does.”

          “Hey Michael,” Luke replied after a moment, and Michael could hear the smile in his voice even if he couldn’t see it. “I’m really good at roller skating. Like,  _ really _ good. Haven’t fallen on skates since I was six.”

          “Idiot,” Michael muttered back, but he couldn’t help the way his lips twitched up or the flush that bloomed on his cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry this update took so long, this chapter's been written for a while but I've been having trouble finishing the next one. If anybody likes this story and wants to help finish it shoot me a message on tumblr or something, I don't want to end up abandoning it but I keep either not having time or end up not feeling inspired enough to write more than a few lines. Thank you for reminding me to post in the comments though, even if I'm still super late <3


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